


Rest Unbothered (Won't You Rest Unbothered)

by Bigggie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Hehe. For me!, Very poggers using ao3 gotta say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 03:49:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30133563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bigggie/pseuds/Bigggie
Summary: [Agapi is an old god. They hope for days long lost.][Basil is young and hungry. He hates a lot.]
Relationships: No <3 - Relationship
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The bitches who love me](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+bitches+who+love+me).



Agapi is an old god.

They have seen societies crumble. They have watched leaders keel over and die...

(They have felt their hold, their worship, slow and sputter to nothing.) 

Agapi is a lonely God. 

They can remember blithe autumns spent in temples, being gifted not quite ripe crops, meat, --and their favorite-- wine in hopes of a good harvest. They miss those days, when they were _present_ and _real_ and _divine._

Now, it seems they have shifted, changed in some horrible way. 

Their temples are no more, so they sleep in a cottage in the woods, tucked away from humanity (where they belong). The world is ever changing, and Agapi has lost their ability to stay balanced in the chaos. 

They feel something new was over them, feel themself twist into something different. _Instability_ , an angry part of their mind hisses. They try to ignore it. 

They try to sleep. It's hard to get into bed. It's hard to stay still long enough to rest. 

They're in a limbo of restlessness and insomniatic , swinging wildly between the two like a pendulum. 

They tend to the grapes, and try not to think about the fact they're dying. Agapi would rather till the soil than remember that they are rotting here. They try not to wonder if they will one day be feeding the dense grape fields with their ichor and flesh.

(They think they would make good fertilizer, that a forest could grow from their bones, and that deer could feast on their organs.) 

The monotony becomes all they are, and their fingers stain with the juice from the fruit.

But soon, they start noticing peculiar things.

Entire vines messily taken from the plants, footsteps in the muck, their back window being opened.

It's confusing and exhilarating, it's something _new_ and they can't wait to solve the mystery.

However, when they come in after a day of mindless tilling and watering, they come inside only to find...

A mortal, sprawled under their kitchen table, snoring quietly.

They freeze, staring in disbelief. _it's not,_ the hiss that refuses to leave the corner of their mind says, _you're imagining it. they left for a reason._

(They don't think they'd care if it was fake at this point.)

Carefully, ever so carefully, they close the door behind themself and tip toe over, making sure to hide the more.. upsetting parts of their form, they stare at the sleeping person.

They're about 5'4, dressed in an old looking shirt and muddy jeans. Their hair is black and tangled, reaching past their shoulders and down their back. They snore lightly.

(Agapi wonders if they're real. )

".. Hello?" Agapi mutters, crouching down.

There's a groaning noise as the figure shifts, blinking their eye open before their gaze focuses and they _jump_.

"Leave me _alone._ " They mutter, glaring at Agapi and shaking.

" _are you real..?_ " Agapi whispers under their breath, tilting their head.

"... don't touch me. Don't even _look at me,_ " 

"I-- it's okay just.. please, let me..." They trail off, going to the fridge and pulling out a bag of grapes and crackers (they have no clue how old those are in all honesty) before grabbing a glass and filling it with water. They put it on the floor under a chair away from their guest.

"It's not much but.. it's food," they mutter. Hospitality is important, they think to themself.

The figure under the table tilts his head, face contorting from fear and anger to confusion. "Why did you..?"

".. you're a guest..?" They ask back, equally confused.

"I _broke_ i-- actually? Just.. just leave me alone."

Agapi nods, mostly just happy to have had a conversation (no matter how disjointed it is) at all.

They walk out of the kitchen, heading to the linen closet to retrieve two extra blankets. They frown, because they smell a tad bit mildewy, but it'll do on such short notice.

They walk back over to Guest who hasn't moved yet, putting down the two blankets infront of a chair.

"Alright.. I'm going to head to bed now.. goodnight..!"

They walk back to their bedroom, closing the door and sighing in relief, going back to their normal form.

Agapi walks over to their desk and begin to write.

(The page is full of mindless scribbling.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one... Yeah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay uh. Tw:
> 
> Implied/referenced abuse, sexual abuse, religious trauma, violence, and body horror . Alright that's it.

Basil thinks that whatever _thing_ is up there, hates him.

(He thinks he hates it too, in all honesty. It abandoned him. It was the one thing that wasn't allowed to abandon him, and yet it still did.)

Basil no longer prays to puppet gods. They've done him no good, so why should he give them his tribute?

(Besides, prayer never worked before. No matter who or what he clasped his hands and crossed his heart for nothing changed.)

He remembers when he did love the idea of God, When he thought they would whisk him away from all that was awful in the world and cradle him in their palm. That they would whisper _do not be afraid_ against his eyelids, and curl up around him like a cat.

(He remembers crying out for God too, when he was raw and bleeding. They never came to him, to wipe away his tears and make sure he'd never be hurt again. Surely, next time, they will.)

He starts therapy when he's fourteen. His parents reason it would be good for him, to talk about anything that makes him sad or angry.

(He always was angry, even when he was young. He wonders if he were better, if he were nicer and 'good-er,' if he would've not have to gone. Maybe he would be home, with his own bed and his own blanket and everything would _finally make some goddamn sense._ )

At first, he likes his Therapist. He's funny, and he treats Basil like an adult! He's the coolest adult _ever._

(Stupid, he thinks in retrospect. How could he be so fucking stupid? How could he be so naive. Why did he let that happen to himself.)

It started out small, he wants to convince himself, but it was so obviously. Inappropriate questions he laughs off, lingering touches. They're friendly, of course. His Therapist has the best interest in mind!

(Basil wishes he could beat the sense into his old self, just to get him to actually listen. He knows that only violence could ever get things through his thick, angry skull.)

His parents pick him up all the same, unflinching at his changing demeanor. One day, they pick him up when his nose is bleeding. None of them say anything about it.

(He was so, so, angry. He gets it, in a way. He was docile then. He was calm. He never shouted or ate too much or ran around the house. He was the perfect child.)

It gets.. fuzzier, as time goes on. He doesn't remember talking about things that hurt him or Intrigue him anymore. He's taught more things than he'd like to be.

(He remembers, the last _real_ talk they have being about god. He remembers explaining that he hopes god is nice. He remembers hiss Therapist telling him to shut up. He doesn't think god is nice for a few days after that.)

He remembers the murder in perfect memory.

He's lead to the bedroom, and he.. he's * _dying_ *, shoved against the floor and he, * _he can't breathe,_ * and he's staring up at the Therapist, who watches delightedly. His hands are flailing around, reaching for anything as his vision begins to swim and---

His hands wrap around part of a tripod, and he doesn't hesitate to hit him over the head with it, scrambling up over the cursing man's body and---

He.. he...

(He remembers the squelching noises, the sounds of his skull crunching and his heavy breathing. He remembers after what seemed like hours, letting the tripod leg fall from his arms, a strange bliss talking over him as he stares at the bloody mess that used to be human.)

He throws up on the carpet.

(He curses God.)

When the shock wears off, he starts to panic. He's a * _murderer._ * He has to run-- he needs to * _eave_.

(He thinks about Cain and Abel. He wonders if Cain felt this good. He thinks he's evil.)

So, he grabs a bag from the closet, and begins to search around for anything he thinks will be useful. Money, food, clothing--

(He _hates_ that he has clothing in his Therapist's closet. He _hates_ himself.)

Before he leaves, he changes, and stares at himself in the mirror.

(The beginnings of a bruise spreads across his neck. He raises his hands to the back of his neck. His fingertips come back bloody.)

He raises his collar, grabs his bag, and slips out of the bedroom, trying his hardest to ignore the dead body.

(Not his therapist, just a dead body. It's easier to lie to himself at the moment.)

After that day, it's been a hazy blur of park benches and cheap fast food. He walks far, far from Missouri, ending up in Northrth Carolina of all places.

(He worries, that no matter how far he goes, that they'll still find him.

And for once, he thought he finally had a lucky break. An abandoned (at least temporarily) vineyard, with sweet grapes and a little house to sleep in.

(It feels so safe, it felt like he would be protected there for the first time in awhile.)

And then _grape man showed_ up.

(He thinks he hates them.)

They're.. strange. They talk quietly, voice more of a rasp than anything. They offer him food and blankets for "hospitalities sake."

(He definitely hates them.)

But he is too warm and too full of grapes to leave, so he curls up with his back against the door.

(It'a fairly comfortable with just a few blankets on the floor)

Tomorrow, he reasons. He'll leave tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't that good because I am tired.


End file.
